


Workout

by RussianWitch



Series: Kinktober2018 [9]
Category: Justice League (2017)
Genre: Body Worship, Breast Fucking, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Muscles, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Titfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 11:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Kinktober day 9 prompts Titfucking Sthenolagnia





	Workout

**Author's Note:**

> not betead   
> catching up on prompts

Clark is the result of careful genetic engineering, centuries of it before his parents got it into their heads to stop playing god, or stop to play god depending on how one looked at the situation.

Bruce, in a way, is the result of careful engineering as well. Years upon years of training condensing a fragile human body into a weapon.

When he’s feeling restless, unmoored from the world he’s sworn to keep protecting, Clark watches Bruce train, the thick muscles work and strain as Bruce pushes himself, again and again, punishing his body into submission.

Clark watches through the walls from the other side of the cave, speechless with the desire to feel all of that strength under his hands.

He’s felt it before, of course, the very night they first met and after.

Clark hadn’t thought anything of it then, hadn’t had the time—now, he has all the time in the world.

He wants to touch Bruce, run his hands over all the bulging muscle, trace each individual group of them, him his tongue over rough skin damaged over the years by guns and knives and god only knows what else...“If you insist on ogling, you might as well do it from up close,” Bruce says in the same casual tone he uses on reporters commenting on the weather as he stops to hydrate. He doesn’t even bother to look in Clark’s direction, picks up the bottle of water and throws it back instead thick neck and throat muscles working and he swallows.

His knees feel a little weak. He must have stayed out of the sun for too long, Clark thinks, as he floats to Bruce.

“Sorry—, it’s just…” Clark finds himself tongue-tied with Bruce right in front of him, bare-chested and sweaty.

He's breathing hard, pectorals rising and falling, pale pink nipples tight in the cold dungeon air, Clark wants to smother himself in that chest, bury his face between those meaty pecs and suffocate on the scent of sweat, industrial rubber, and overpriced soap.

"Clark!"

Clark has no idea how Bruce has gotten from all the way across the room to right in front of him.

"I wasn't looking—okay, I was looking, but I wasn't—" he babbles, feeling like an idiot. With Bruce this close, he can feel the heat radiating from the older man's body, can easily hear the almost sub-vocal rumble of Bruce's amusement.

Being laughed at is better than being told to go away...

"Cla—" Bruce says again, exasperated now.

He wraps a hand around Clark's chin, tugging lightly and Clark has no choice but to look up.

"What?" He snaps, angry with himself.

"How far does that blush go?" Bruce whispers in his ear, and Clark goes weak in the knees.

He should say something witty and sophisticated, he's a journalist, after all, words are what he does for a living, but all that manages to gets past his lips is a broken whimper.

Bruce's lips twist into something that might be called a smirk, something that wouldn't look out of place on the maw of a tiger ready to pounce—"Guess I have to find out myself," Bruce says.

Clark is still processing the statement when his dress shirt rips, plastic buttons scattering all over the place. Dazed he looks down, notes that Bruce's fists are wrinkling the front of his shirt, untucking it from Clark's jeans.

"Bruce!" He isn't sure what to do, if he's being attacked or—Bruce's hands travel down his sides to his hips, rest there for a breathless moment then grab his ass savagely hoisting Clark off his feet with barely a grunt. Bruce swings him around, and Clark feels the damp rock wall against his back and damp billionaire against his front.

"I liked this shirt," Clark mumbles making himself float.

The face slap is more of a shock than anything, Bruce can't actually hurt him without getting his tech involved, but Clark is still hurt.

"No," Bruce tells him like he's a disobedient pet.

He isn't sure why he's just done to deserve getting slapped, then Bruce does it again then grabs Clark's hips pulling him down.

Blushing harder, Clark gets the message and stops trying to help. His thighs are pressed wider by Bruce's bulk. A human, Clark knows, would be feeling the burn of the stretch, he can only fantasize about it as he wraps his legs around Bruce's waist.

Bruce—is almost is as solid as the rock digging in Clark's back.

Clark puts his trembling hands on broad shoulders, grabs at the muscle the can feel move under weather and violence marked skin moaning brokenly when Bruce flexes, and he feels every muscle shift against him.

Something rips, and Clark sobs shuddering in embarrassment, growing even harder as Bruce chuckles pressing even closer.

His mouth is taken, roughly, forcefully, bruisingly on a human. Bruce fucks his mouth more than kisses it, overpowering him without even trying.

By the time Bruce has to pull away to catch a breath, Clark feels like he's just made a trip into the stratosphere and wondering which of the two of them the alien is.

He clutches at Bruce as they pull away from the wall and he's carried to the mats and laid down, Bruce folding to his knees without losing his balance or dropping Clark, crouching over him teeth bared and panting like a predator crouching over him kill.

Clark's eyes are glued to Bruce's chest, the thick pectorals jutting out.

His hands follow his eyes without conscious thought.

Bruce curses as Clark digs his fingers into the solid of Bruce's chest pushing the pectorals together, whimpering when the formed cleavage looks deep enough to...

"Is that what you were thinking about?" Bruce husks, his hands covering Clark's keeping them in place when he tries to let go, to get himself under control and stop perving.

It seems all he can do is apologize and embarrass himself where Bruce is concerned.

Not that Bruce seems to care much as Clark's apology is ignored.

Once he's sure Clark isn't about to let go, Bruce's hands find their way to Clark's belt. They dispose of it while taking every opportunity to brush against Clark's rigid dick that sticks red and wet out of the broken zipper of his pants, stripping Clark with merciless efficiency.

Letting go, Bruce stretches out next to him, arching his back as he folds his arms behind his head, his sweatpants tented, every dirty fantasy Clark has had in recent months rolled into one.

"Come here," Bruce invites when Clark doesn't move.

The words might as well be in some foreign language, it takes Clark forever to get what Bruce is asking—what he's being offered.

He almost comes on the spot.

Getting to his knees, he crawls over to Bruce who watches him with annoyingly eternal patience.

All of Bruce laid out for him like a buffet has Clark stall with indecision. He wants to lick every inch of mangled skin, wants to trace every muscle group with his fingers map every scar, _memorize_ every nick and spot in case he isn't allowed to touch again.

Clark isn't even sure why Bruce has decided to allow this now—he wants to ask, but...

He straddles Bruce's waist instead, grinning crookedly when Bruce groans when Clark's ass settles over his crotch.

Before Clark can take advantage, Bruce's hand hooks behind his neck, pushing him down to bury his face between the heaving, sweaty pecs. Like the rest of Bruce there is nothing soft about Bruce's chest, but Clark still can't resist tracing the curve of each in turn with his tongue and push them together kneading and grabbing until Bruce's breath is audible, echoing around the cave, his fingers white with strain where they dig into Clark's shoulders.

He shrugs Bruce's grip off, forgetting himself and the human veneer he usually puts on, crawling up the prone man's body his dick dragging along the gnarled muscles of Bruce's abdomen.

Clark rises to his knees, his dick slapping wetly against his belly, sucking in oxygen and fighting the urge to pinch himself in case it turns out he is dreaming...He pushes Bruce's pecs together, takes a deep breath...The first slide of his dick between the muscular mounts leaves Clark dizzy and shaken. The way Bruce looks up at him, self-satisfied and hungry not helping Clark's equilibrium any.

His hips twitch, stutter as he tries to find a rhythm.

Bruce's hands cover Clark's own.

Together they push Bruce's pectorals together, trapping Clark's dick in the furrow between them hot and tight and when Bruce _flexes_ Clark thinks he's going to pass out from how _good_ and _dirty_ and _wrong_ it feels.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashes against Clark's nerves as Bruce jerks him off to _with his tits_ making every fantasy Clark had come true. He whimpers, pants and leaves finger-shaped bruises on Bruce's tits getting the orgasm milked out of him.

Clark comes abruptly, painting Bruce's collarbones and face.

He isn't sure if he faints, but later on he can't remember how they switch position, how he ends up on his back with Bruce on top of him eclipsing the world, feeding his dick into Clark's slack mouth to happily gag on, hoping if he makes it really good Bruce will let him have this again.


End file.
